


Oh my wild dragon heart

by TheHighestMountain



Category: The Memoirs of Lady Trent - Marie Brennan
Genre: Bisexuality, Canon Asexual Character, F/F, Isabella (Lady Trent) & Natalie Oscott, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:35:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23633212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHighestMountain/pseuds/TheHighestMountain
Summary: In my memoirs I left out an integral time that shaped the woman I am today. In my early twenties I journeyed to the Moulish swamps and I wrote of it in much detail in The Tropic of Serpents. It is now time for the full of it to come to light in the form of tale that I have now been given permission to tell, now that we are both old enough truly not to care what others think of us.I have loved two different men, but in the wild lands of Eriga I discovered that I have the potential within me for another kind of love.A tale of self discovery and bisexuality.
Relationships: Isabella/Natalie
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Oh my wild dragon heart

**_ Oh my wild dragon heart _ **

_Preface_

Public opinion is a fickle thing. In my memoirs I have written of scandal, of treason, of suspected affairs, and of being tarnished with the brush of a failed mother. I have woven these threads into the stories of my life, compiled in _The Memoirs of Lady Trent_ , and I have left very little back. The public’s fluctuating opinion of me is well known to anyone who has read of me, in my own books or otherwise, and for those older amongst my readers, anyone who perused a Scirling newspaper.

There are tales even the public has not yet read of. Hints of what I am set to reveal have flitted around society in the form of unconfirmed gossip; now I stand ready to set rumour to rest. In my previous volumes I excluded selected facts for a variety of honest reasons: secrets entrusted to me by those who would not want those secrets revealed, intimate details of the lives of the local peoples that bore no relevance, and facts of natural history that would weary the casual reader.

Over and above these I left out an integral time that shaped the woman I am today. In my early twenties I journeyed to the Moulish swamps and I wrote of it in much detail in _The Tropic of Serpents_. It is now time for the full of it to come to light in the form of tale that I have now been given permission to tell, now that we are both old enough truly not to care what others think of us.

If you are deterred by blatant violations of societal conventions (or if you are my mother), then you may wish to put this down for I hold precious little back. It is long past time that I brought this to the light.

I have loved two different men, but in the wild lands of Eriga I discovered that I have the potential within me for another kind of love.

Lady Trent

_Leeches, again – A moment – Yellow Fever – Caretaking – A confession – Scirland & the aftermath_

Recall if you will, or refer to my second memoir _The Tropic of Serpents_ if your memory fails you, the events that lead to Thomas Wilker, Natalie Oscott, and I trekking through the thick mud of the Moulish swamps. I voyaged out to Bayembe to research dragons, a landn in disruption with a Scirling presence, separated from the warring Ikuwande by the jungle of Mouleen.

In Atuyem I met Ankumata n Rumeme Gbori and from me he extracted a promise: I would venture out into Mouleen and bring back for him swamp-wyrm eggs. This oath brought me many ethical and personal dilemmas, but they are not the focus of this piece of writing. They merely form the backdrop. It suffices to state that I was in a state of mutual scholarly excitement and moral turmoil as I trucked through the swamps under the careful eye of Faj Rawango as we sought the clearing where the Moulish often set up camp.

At this time I was cautious, yes, but also full of hope of grand scientific discovery. At the tender age of twenty I was ensnared in the dichotomy of youth: the simultaneous belief that one is destined to discovery something new and brilliant and bold that will shake the modern world to its core and leave one’s mark on the twisted story of history, but also that one is a fraud and that my previous discoveries were the result of luck and riding on the coattails of those for skilled than I.

With this in mind, it will not surprise one to learn that I was a touch self-absorbed. It does not shame me to admit it. I was focused on my problems, my dilemmas, and generally myself, and did not spare overly much thought for my companions beyond the basics of caring about their emotional and physical health. Thomas Wilker and I had settled into a mutual respect of our scientific abilities and an awkward kind of familiarity, aware of our respective jealousies of the other. Our conversations focused on the expedition and science; it would be some time before our friendship deepened.

Natalie Oscott, on the other hand, I felt a strong kinship with and viewed her almost as an extension of myself. Her particular obsession was with engineering and discoveries of a mechanical nature rather than dragons, but this was a minor variation on our persons. I wanted to help her to escape the restrictive grasp of her father, in much the same way that Jacob Camherst had once helped me to escape the restrictions of society. When I looked at her I felt as though I was looking in a mirror.

In essence, before we sailed to Eriga I had never taken any particular stock of Natalie’s appearance, other than to note that she would have no difficulty ensnaring a reasonably desirable husband if she so wished (and she _certainly_ did not wish), until I was flapping around in a Moulish swamp with a leech attached to the small of my back.

“Ah, Isabella?” Natalie’s voice was unusually strained, as though something was caught in her throat. “You, ah – your shirt –“

Whilst I had secured my sturdy trousers firmly into my stockings, the tail of my shirt had become un-tucked as we hiked, presenting the opportunity for a disgusting slimy mass to attach itself to me.

I am afraid that I acted quite in contrary to my station and to how the public now perceives me. In short, I flapped. There was also shrieking. Like most ladies of Falchester I had never even seen a leech before this expedition, let alone had a slimy mass attached itself onto me in an attempt to feast on my blood. The very idea sent shivers up my spine.

Mr Wilker held me firm by my shoulders, stopping my merry dance that was disturbing the water (was I thinking more clearly, I never would have done such a thing. To churn unknown waters is to risk summoning something far more dangerous than a leech).

“Stand still, Isabella!” I obeyed, forcing my feet to stay in one place, eyes screwed shut.

I felt the brush of cool, soft hands on the small of my back. Then fleeting pain as the leech was forced to let go of my tender flesh. Mr Wilker’s hands released me and I turned to see Natalie flinging the mass into the swamp. I shuddered in revulsion and continued to do so for the next half hour. When my mind had settled, I thanked Natalie for her quick action.

“It was nothing, Isabella.”

On we went, trekking through the swamps, feet sodden and legs weary. We set up camp in a small clearing and as I lay on my sleeping mat that night I felt the ghostly impression of fingers grazing the small of my back. They were soft and gentle and their presence lulled me to sleep.

I am accustomed to drawing wherever I go. Typically, whenever I am not drawing dragons (dissected or otherwise) my sketches are of the scenery – in this case the swampy undergrowth and the lush greenery flourishing above, hiding secrets of which I knew little – and the local people.

Whilst I am no anthropologist it pleases me to make record of the people we encounter. My rare empty mornings and evening were spent tucked into a surreptitious corner drawing the life around me: the people, their garments, their hand gestures and their chores. My pages quickly filled with brief charcoal images of the Moulish gathering water, preparing dinner, and readying to go on the hunt.

Interspersed between these scenes of everyday life, my pages were covered with overlapping sketches of my companions: Tom and Faj Rawango eating dinner, Natalie with her face scrunched up as she worked on her glider concepts, myself with mud splattered across my nose, Natalie again watching the wildlife.

My pencil stilled in thought, midway finished with drawing her again: hair haloed around her face, the sunlight bleeding through. It occurred to me that I _had_ been drawing Natalie rather frequently. Perhaps it was the simplicity of her form; slender as she was it took a scant few pen strokes to capture the length of her legs, the curve of her back, the smile that lit up her face when she found something fascinating.

There were those phantom fingers again, trailing up my forearm. I blinked in alarm. This was most unusual, what on earth was provoking it? It was, I decided, my state of solitude; being so far from home surrounded by unfamiliar people added to the fact that I was still grieving Jacob and had not been held by anyone since his death had induced this feeling of being touched (by a woman’s hands, no less!), I was sure of it.

I had friends, certainly. But they were primarily scholarly friends, people with whom to debate scientific theories and discuss papers, not the kind of close friend who would hold you as you cried and wipe away your tears without a word. My relationship with my family was likewise strained. The kinds of people that a widow could expect to lean on for comfort in her grief were absent from my life.

But if it was loneliness, the desire to be looked at and held by another person, that had produced these phantom sensations and had directed my hands to generate these sketches that were so fondly rendered, then why was it not Tom that I was drawing?

This line of thought unnerved me. I packed up my drawing materials, leaving the sketch unfinished. At that moment I could not bear to bring life to her face.

The days passed as the usually do out in the field: stilted conversations in a language that was unfamiliar to me, unusual food, and in clothes that were not as clean as one might prefer. I am never as happy as I am when I am making discoveries. On one such hot, discovery-making day, Tom, Natalie, and I were out in search of dragons. We had found one sunning itself on a rock.

I have never been known as an overly sensible woman. Whilst not altogether reckless, my youth has often been described as the produce of one foolish and rash decision after another. One may recall my kidnapping in Vystrana after following a strange man out of the village in the dead of night.

I was certainly not sensible enough to let the oncoming signs of illness – the fatigue, the restless nights, the full body aching and the pressing headaches – keep me from my work. Never mind the well-known fact that rest (and tromping through a jungle thigh high in much is not restful) would mean a shorter recovery period.

Any and all symptoms were rationalised away by the physical exertion of our research, by the strange food, the unfamiliar environment, or any other reason that occurred to me. By the time it became apparent that I was consciously self-deluding, it was too late for me to rest easily.

My hand shook too much for me to hold my pencil and it tumbled from my grasp. Natalie was the first to notice.

“Isabella,” she whispered, in a tone of concern. When I promptly vomited into the underbrush and scared the dragon off, Natalie called for Tom who lectured me thoroughly, though perhaps as not as much as I deserved, whilst I bristled with indignation.

Back in my tent I was swiftly diagnosed with the yellow fever. It began with sweating and the simultaneous feeling that I was both too hot and too cold. My thoughts grew fuzzy as I lay in the small tent, hoping that my fever would break and I would escape with a relatively minor strand of yellow fever.

Sweat soaked through my clothes within a matter of hours. If I had enough presence of mind I would have been embarrassed and disgusted when Natalie ducked in to check on me. My mind was otherwise preoccupied; Natalie’s arrival disturbed some odd train of thought.

I imagine most of my readers have suffered a fever. I ask you to recall that odd state of being, where one’s mind is like a runaway train, considering things most bizarre whilst being thoroughly convinced of their own reality no matter how surreal.

I had been envisioning on what manner of expedition I might set out on next, and within minutes my brain was thoroughly convinced that in a few months I would be commandeering a ship to some as of yet undiscovered isle, inhabited by nothing but a tribe of multi-coloured dragons. Natalie had walked in as I pondered what best to name these beasts. As their discoverer, the right of naming went to me, and I had fully intended to leverage that moment into a fellowship at the Colloquium.

Natalie stood over me in silence for a few moments, whether in judgement or discomfort or some other reason I could not say. I only knew that my feverish mind was half focused on my prancing imaginary beasts, and half on the gentle curve of her jaw.

“Would you like me to draw you?” My voice was surprisingly steady such that the words themselves were the only evidence of my current deranged state. The suggestion did not seem unreasonable to me. Natalie was here, clearly aimless, and I had nothing better to occupy my time with. I did not understand why she looked so concerned. “I have many drawings of you,” I admitted, “but none from such an angle. From down here you look very tall.”

“I am taller than you, Isabella.”

“Yes you are. It is one of your many charms.”

Natalie looked at me oddly, an undecipherable expression on her face. “A moment, I will be back.”

No time at all had passed but my eyes were closed when she returned. I could not find the strength to open my eyelids. Curious. Surely that did not require much energy? My eyelids fluttered open and shut several times a minute all day long without any conscious effort, why could they not do it now? This did not bother me much, mellow as I was.

Water splashed in a bowl. Natalie – at least I presumed it was Natalie, it did not seem important enough for me to check – sat heavily beside me. A damp cloth brushed against my forehead. It was wrung out, dunked in the water again, and reapplied to my face.

“Thank you,” I whispered, the coolness of the water refreshing against the heat of my body.

“You will be fine.” Silence. “You must be. If you are not alright then I must return to Scirland in disgrace. My father will marry me off and it will be awful, Isabella.” Her voice was agitated. “You must be fine.”

I was pulled out of my drifting thoughts of Jacob and our marriage and how happy he had made me and how much I dearly missed him by the brush of soft lips on my forehead. It was nothing, a motherly and friendly gesture of care and concern. A simple forehead kiss. Yet it burned against my skin.

For three days I burned, my fever rising and my mind running wild. Too hot and too sweaty to sleep, I tossed and turned, ghosts planting kisses on my face, wrists, and back.

I now know what was happening to me: the tired anxious mind fixates on what is troubling it, and the fever amplifies this, adding to those concerns a dreamlike, unreal, and very threatening quality. I was troubled by several things: the son I had left behind and thus my status as a mother; my own grief and loneliness, feeling guilty for even considering whether or not I might take another in marriage after Jacob yet also not wishing to be a widow for the rest of my life; and lastly a long buried appreciation of the female form brought to the forefront of my mind by Natalie’s innocent beauty and acts of caretaking towards me.

To be clear, lest I accidentally give the impression that Natalie was taking advantage of me, she was not pursuing me in my sickness. She was simply acting as a good friend, helping me eat and drink and wiping away sweat. I overlaid onto these simple and straightforward actions my own suppressed desires.

At the time it bothered me very much and when, on the third day, my fever broke and I appeared to begin to recover, I flinched from Natalie when she entered my tent. My conscious thoughts were now fully under my control and I felt suffused with shame as I looked at her, frantically peering back into memory to try and recall if I had done anything inappropriate. I do not believe I did and if I had, Natalie had the tact never to bring it up.

“I feel much better,” my voice was coloured with false optimism as I struggled to sit up. “We shall be back at work tomorrow.”

Tom ducked his head into the tent and caught the last of my words. He frowned. “If you remain healthy for a week, then we may consider it. Until then, you rest.”

I protested and ate a hearty meal to prove my health, all the while never catching Natalie’s eye. I feared that she might peer into my eyes and see the emerging truth written there: I, Isabella Camherst, had an emerging fondness for women that I was thoroughly made uncomfortable by. I did not mind such a quality in _other_ women, that did not faze me in slightest, but that was not _me_.

You may think me ridiculous and you would not be far wrong, upon retrospection. The sum of all that had happened was a few feverish dreams, a necessary and brief skin-on-skin contact, and a caring, almost motherly, kiss to the forehead. Bar the dreams, it was not even inappropriate in the eyes of society.

But Scirland at this time was not the place it is now; same sex relationships were not spoken of openly and for women they were clothed in terms of companionship and close friendship. Even when I spoke to Natalie, before we sailed out for Bayembe, of her lack of desire to be intimate with men, the idea of desire for women had never crossed my mind.

A natural consequence of this is that it had never occurred to me until now that _I_ might be interested in a woman; indeed, that I _could be_ interested a women. The idea was simply alien. It was almost as though someone had asked me to reconsider whether I was truly interested in dragons. I loved dragons and I liked men. It was a simple as that, except now it wasn’t. There was someone else in me and that woman liked women and I did not want to let her out.

Frail in body and tender of mind, this did not feel like the right moment for a thorough bout of self-introspection. But if this was not a good time, when was?

Shortly after my apparent recovery I entered the second, more dangerous phase of yellow fever and I fell back into the deep caverns of my mind and long repressed memories. I was delirious with fever and pain; my memories little more than a hallucinatory smear of impressions, even more so than the first bout.

My brothers crowded around me, speaking innocently of the girls they knew. When I ventured an opinion on Elizabeth – “ _I_ think she’s cute, I like her hair” – my older brother laughed and told me only boys were allowed to talk about girls like that. He didn’t know why though. Time passed and I was older, my cheeks flushed as I shoved a tatty book my friend had given me in the back of my wardrobe. I had just gotten to the part where the two young women had shared a kiss and had slammed the book shut. I was out for a chaperoned walk about town and my mother was tutting at two ladies strolling arm in arm, cautioning me to never behave like that for fear that I would never attract a reputable husband.

Memories mixed with the present and I shook and I raved. No one ever spoke of what I said, but I expect it was mostly incomprehensible. Crawling to the corner of the tent I heaved up black bile – a terrible omen that drew my friends quickly, hands pressed to my clammy forehead as words flew around me incomprehensibly.

“Isabella,” Natalie’s voice was soft, as though she knew that her words would upset me but she must utter them regardless. “There is something the villagers wish to try. I must remove your clothes.”

My mind was hazy, thoughts unclear as I waded through a hot misty morning, lost in the streets of Falchester, holding hands with Natalie. But no, Natalie was here and my hands were empty save for the sweat. Somehow I made sense of her words, rolling them around in the syrup of my mind.

“Nooo,” I protested, flinching away from her hands. “No.” I did not want her to touch me, certainly not to remove my clothes.

Yet I was too weak to put up any serious defence and every brush against my sweating and shivering skin felt like a brand of fire. Stripped bare and covered in a scratchy blanket, I was carried outside and slathered in mud by Apuesiso, Akinimanbi’s grandmother.

“To bring your fever down,” the elderly woman explained as she covered me, concealing my nudity with a covering of muck. I slept outside fitfully; my friends unwilling to heave me back inside the tent only to have me plaster mud everywhere.

When I came to my senses I felt something like relief. Not for my health, for a long time I waited with bated breath for the disease to drag me back under as it had before, not daring to believe that I had ridden out the worst, but for my mind. It was not as though a few days of raving had dug out something from my youth that I had pressed down so far that I had almost forgotten it, and caused me to accept what I found down there.

But I came to an understanding. What I feared, what I think truly worried me, was how society and my family would see me. When I understood this, I knew it could be conquered; I had cast aside what society thought of me as woman when I walked side by side with my husband to Vystrana and again when I published a scientific paper about that very expedition; I cast aside what was expected of a mother when I left my son behind to sail to Eriga. I could do it again. With this understanding came a measure of peace, I only needed to give voice to this to make it true.

Which is where the Moulish and their accusations of witchcraft came in.

I remember our time around the sweltering campfire as one of the most surreal memories of my life. I had been a poor Segulist and I was not in the slightest convinced that my illness was the result of witchcraft, but there was something undeniably _odd_ about how unfortunate I had been. I suspect now, looking backwards with the benefit of wisdom that the years I have lived have brought me, that my ill fortune was the result of an ill mindset.

I was plagued you see, in spirit as well as in body: thoughts of Bayembe and my ill-spoken promise to snatch dragon eggs, the kindness of the Moulish that I wished to betray, the burning within me to prove my worth to Scirland and to the Colloquium, my son, my friends, my family. Natalie’s soft lips on my forehead, my illness, and concern for my reputation (tattered though it had become, I preferred for it not to be decimated completely). Above all else, there was the sudden sense of my very identity unravelling in my fingers.

My mind, you see, had not been at rest for quite some time.

Of the ceremony itself, I have written in much detail in _The Tropic of Serpents,_ but I will sketch out the details again here. The Moulish have their ceremonies for matters of the spirit and the soul. This one involved the central fire of the camp, fuelled by wood and leaves that created a specific fragrant smoke.

With cupped hands we (and by we, I refer to myself, Tom, and Natalie) were directed to scoop and inhale the smoke. I rather suspect that the purpose of this was to intoxicate us, to loosen our tongues to speaking the truth. Then there was silence, a quiet period of contemplation where my tongue sought to shape the words that ought to form my apologies and my confessions.

I began by explaining why we, why I, was there. “I want this knowledge for _my_ people. They will respect me more if I learn things they do not know. I was going to present this knowledge as my own, even though you helped me gain it. That is not fair to you, and I am sorry.”

Thus we began, a round circle of confessions some of which brought heat to my cheeks and would later inspire a bout of self-examination, such as Mekeesawa’s proclamation that his brother had left because of my very presence. Other speeches had the same precise physiological effect – the reddening of my face – but opposing emotional ones. I am not ashamed to admit that Tom’s words softened my heart.

Then Natalie spoke and I grew tense. I would not go so far to say that there was evil in my heart, but there was certainly discontent. She spoke in our native tongue, for two reasons: firstly, her command of Yembe was too poor to accurately convey what she wished to say, and secondly that which she wished to say was not for our trio’s ears alone.

“While I do not think this,” she gestured around her as if to encompass not only our immediate vicinity but the entire expedition, “is the life for me – I miss my bed too much – it has given me the courage, and I think the freedom, to pursue the life I _do_ want.”

“What is that?” I asked, curious. That she did not seek follow the ordinary path of a Scirling lady was obvious, but I could not see what other options lay open to her.

She blushed and glanced at Mr. Wilker. “I – do you remember what I said to you before we left Scirland? About things I was not interested in?”

Of course I remembered. In my fevered state I had relived that experience again and again, wondering at the hidden subtext of our conversation. She did not want the touch of a man. In that moment it felt as if there was no air left to breathe – I thought, perhaps foolishly, that she might say that the life that she wanted to pursue was, well, _me._

I pause here so that you may laugh. Please give me the courtesy of cutting my younger self a little slack – like many at that age I was naïve and self-centred. I had spent days rolling around in my own filth, sweating and delirious, dreaming of young women all of whom desired me and chased me when I fled. I was young and my sparkling career was unfolding before me; all I could think of was _me_.

“Yes, I remember.”

“While we were in Atuyem, I found that sometimes co-wives will … provide another with affection. I have wondered, from time to time, whether that is what I want. But I – well. I tried.” It was clear, even to me in the depths of self absorption, that she did not mean that she had tried with _me_. “Suffice it to say that I have tested my theory and proved it false. I enjoy the company of women a great deal. I, ah, I like the emotional connection. The support. But I honestly do not think I want anything, ah, truly physical.”

By now her blush was fierce and Mr. Wilker’s expression far too stiff to pretend he had not caught her meaning. What I experienced was a fully body relaxation, as though all the tension had drained out of me. I still did not believe in witchcraft or in curses, but I knew that this was a moment in which I could speak my truth. When the ritual clapping ceased I began.

“It is as if my life has been shaped by dragons. Everything else has been framed around that, as though there is a dragon inside of me casting everything else into shadow. Finding a husband, having a child, my relationships with friends and family - all of these I have viewed through the lens of my career, and my identity, as a natural historian of dragons. This is how I see myself and my life.

“The thread began when I was girl with the Great Sparkling Inquiry and it has woven its way through my past, leading me to Jacob in the menagerie, which in turn took us both to Vystrana and his-“ It was here that my voice caught. No matter how long it has been I still mourn the loss of my first husband.

“- Death. The thread of the dragon in my heart has brought me here in search of eggs and scientific knowledge. There has never been room inside of me for anything else.

“I have had a moment, recently, that has forced me to face my conception of myself. I have always known what I want, ever since I was a little girl living through my Gray Years, but now I have uncovered something hidden. Something unexpected. I feel like I am unravelling and I am not sure what to do. I am not sure who I am.”

My eyes were downcast as the Moulish clapped for me, driving out my evil. On either side of me, my friends reached out and clasped their hands in mine. Tom Wilker to my left, whose confession of scholarly jealously and bitterness had healed whatever remnant of the rift rent in Vystrana was left between us, and Natalie Oscott to my right, who had dared to discover who she was whilst I was still beginning to stumble in the dark.

The fire crackled quietly. I did not cry; I have rarely been prone to tears. But I felt purified. I had at long last, said what was bottled up tight in my heart no matter how cryptic my phrasing, and I felt infinitely freer for having spoken.

At Daboumen’s direction we dug up a twisted, ugly piece of wood.

“The witch put this here,” he said. I threw the twisted thing into the fire.

“Now,” Akinimanbi said, “you are free.”

It is no secret to anyone that I have had two husbands, and ever since the publication of my memoirs it has been open knowledge that in between those two men I had a wife. In _Voyage of the Basilisk_ I asserted most strongly to the people of Keonga that I had no desire to take a wife, and to Heali’i most openly that I could not fulfil the physical role of a husband with a woman.

I knew this because of Natalie.

We did not speak of the confessional until we stood at the Great Cataract. I had a glider strapped to my back, the product of Natalie’s carefully considered but untested designs, and my mad desire to take flight and fulfil my oaths. I knew that I may not survive. I also knew that I had to try.

“This will work.” Her voice was strong, stalwart. She looked me in the eye. “You must keep your weight central unless you wish to turn. No sudden movements.” Her lips curved up in a wry smile. “And you absolutely must not let go.”

We were somewhat secluded, away from the others. The great trees rose up around us, shading our faces and the crashing water of the many falls obscured any other background noise.

I had the proper fear instilled in me. But only enough to make me terrified – not enough to turn back. I feared that I would not see my son again, or that my companions – those who had followed me half way around the world, through the dangers of the Green Hell and back out again – would be in equal measures sent into grief and let down by my death. I feared that I would die here without taking another step along the road of self-discovery.

“I did not speak my full truth at the ceremony.” Natalie moved as if to speak, but I raised a gentle hand. “Please, let me speak. I feel like a fool and I may sound like even more of one, but I must speak. I had a husband that I loved, but he was also my friend. I have never looked for anything more than that, not since he died, and not before.

“Then I came here, in pursuit of my dragons and I saw you. In the swamp, when you plucked that leech off my back and I danced around like a loon, I saw you properly for the first time. You are an attractive young woman, Natalie. It has never occurred to me to –“

I admit I was surprised. I had not expected Natalie’s response to my awkward, clumsy confession to provoke a _smile_. A slight, understanding smile. I struggled onwards, for I could not bear to leave this half undone.

“To, ah, see women. There have been women I admire, of course. Scholars, mostly, the trailblazers among them: women with brilliant minds and an artist’s fingers and a quick wit. But now I wonder and the wondering has caused me great agitation.” It was silent. At least, as silent as it can be with the thundering of great waterfalls dominating the background. “I am finished.”

Natalie seemed thoughtful. It was as if were reversed; she looked at me as though looking into a mirror.

“You are brave, Isabella, to speak of such a thing so openly. It has taken me many years to become so brave.”

“You are younger than I. Braver too.”

“I have thought on this since I was young woman. It wasn’t until Atuyem that it became clear to me.” There was more she wished to say. We had become close, closer than I ever thought we might be; it seemed to me that between our time in Eriga and our conversation now we had the beginnings of a lifelong friendship, but there were still some matters that even a very close friend would hesitate to speak of. “Would you like me to help make it clear for you?”

For a brief moment I believed that she was offering to be _intimate_ with me. The thought was fleeting.

“I –“ It was suddenly terribly difficult to speak. “- don’t wish to take advantage.”

Natalie’s face blossomed into a smile. “Do you think I do not feel the same?”

Looking back, it is obvious why we both felt that we would be taking advantage of the other. Natalie was my responsibility, she had this opportunity to be here – looking at dams and building gliders – because of what I had done. She may have felt that she owed me a blood debt for helping her to escape what she viewed as the shackles of marriage.

Yet Natalie was Lord Hilford’s beloved granddaughter. If our relationship grew sour, I could lose his support and that would be a fell blow indeed. I bristled at it, but I relied on the backing of those more respected by society, Lord Hilford among them, to amplify my voice and financially support my adventures. It was with my aid and approval that Natalie had snuck aboard the ship that had borne us here; for her to denounce me upon her return would have been catastrophic.

You may call me a liar (and I expect that many will) but I still not fully aware of the combination of emotions that led me to this moment. I will say, however, that I was dominated by curiosity and fondness in equal measures.

It was a brief kiss. Possibly one of the briefest of my life and I have kissed only two other people: Jacob Camherst and Suhail. Her lips were soft under mine. I remember it was the feelings that accompanied the kiss that surprised me most of all, for in all other respects it was very similar to any other kiss of my life. I felt not _need_ or _lust_ but comfort. Then it was over.

“I shall do my very best not to let go.” I smiled. Natalie looked hesitantly back at me.

“I do not think…” Her voice trailed off, the words left hanging in the air. We were in agreement.

“No, I don’t think so either.” We were still close. Close enough to kiss again. Instead I touched her cheek, an intimate but almost motherly gesture. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome. Thank you for bringing me here. I think, perhaps we have both found what we want.”

“I think you may be right.” A thought struck me. “If I survive this foolhardy adventure, Natalie, I would still have you as my companion. The normal variety.”

Natalie offered me her hand, to shake, as two men might shake to seal an agreement. It seemed a fitting gesture. We shook and then re-joined the others. The rest of our time in the Great Cataract is a matter of record.

Back in Scirland we continued in very much the same manner as before. Natalie became my live-in companion and occasional tutor to my son, nurturing his growing love of knowledge in the areas of engineering and the mechanical. It would be some years before I would tell him what I had done in the Green Hell and the Great Cataract. I have left this particular tale even longer still – what son, after all, wishes to hear about his mother’s romantic exploits, male or female?

I had feared there might be a difference in the way Natalie and I were around each other. I needn’t have. I rather think Natalie had viewed the whole thing as an experiment, of sorts, but without the cold, unemotional manner that that term indicates. She had confessed to attempting encounters of a more sexual nature in Atuyem, but that these had brought her no joy.

There is a world of difference between attempting to bed a stranger and kissing a friend. I think perhaps she wanted to see if the latter could rouse something within. Whilst I flatter myself that I am a reasonably attractive woman (if not now, then certainly at twenty), this did not appear to be the case for her.

On my part, I returned to my life and to my studies and considered the matter – at least as it concerned Natalie Oscott - closed. It did, however, facilitate a period of self-exploration. I had spent so many of my formative years attached to the idea of Isabella, natural historian of dragons, that I had neglected to explore the other facets of my being.

The years before my voyage on the _Basilisk_ where spent paying greater attention to my son and meeting individuals of all different cultures and experiences. This is not to say that I lay scholarship and dragons aside – certainly not! – but I did allow myself time to discover who I am. I rather like the result.

The memory sometimes brought me the sensation of fondness, but it did not come to mind often. And of course, as well you know if you have read my memoirs, my heart soon turned to Suhail, he of the male variety.

I like to think, perhaps strangely, that in another world there is a different Isabella Trent who devoted her life solely to science and the raising of her son, and who grew into widowhood with a lady companion with whom to share emotional closeness.

This Isabella Trent, however, has a husband, a treasured memory, and her dragons.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and for any comments or kudos.
> 
> I did a big reread of the Memoirs of Lady Trent whilst stuck at home in lockdown. The Tropic of Serpents in particular stuck with me, as did Natalie's speech at the campfire. Whilst I love Isabella and Suhail, I like the idea of a Lady Trent with the space for loving women in her heart.


End file.
